Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Wolf Lahti's LiveJournal:

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Thursday, May 10th, 2012
12:10 pm	Motivation Every place I've ever worked has it wrong. I've known this for a long time, but now there is apparently a large body of research that supports my stance. http://muddycolors.blogspot.com/2012/04/extrinsic-motivators-and-creativity.html (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 9th, 2012
6:47 pm	Hulk smash! I love the optimistically naïve simplicity of service manuals. I've been performing maintenance of our ancient garden tractor in an attempt to get it running before the grass eats the house, and I came across this pithy directive: "Remove the transaxle drain plug." It certainly sounds straightforward enough--but what the manual doesn't tell you is that in order to reach the drain plug to remove it, you need to be a double-jointed contortionist who can bench-press 500 pounds. (Comment on this)
6:33 pm	"Math is hard." --Mattel Talking Barbie Following Obama's coming-out regarding his support of gay marriage, NBC Nightly News reported that "two-thirds of Americans support same-sex marriage, while 40% oppose it". (Comment on this)
6:29 pm	Rest in peace, Maurice Sendak Some things Sendak had to say: “I think it is unnatural to think that there is such a thing as a blue-sky, white-clouded happy childhood for anybody. Childhood is a very, very tricky business of surviving it. Because if one thing goes wrong or anything goes wrong, and usually something goes wrong, then you are compromised as a human being. You’re going to trip over that for a good part of your life.” “A woman came up to me the other day and said, ‘You’re the kiddie-book man!’ ” Mr. Sendak told Vanity Fair last year. “I wanted to kill her.” “Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card, and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.” “Live your Life. Live your Life. Live your Life.” What Neil Gaiman had to say about him: http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2012/05/maurice-sendak-cannibals-and-psychotics.html And what he has to say to Stephen Colbert: http://www.cartoonbrew.com/illustration/stephen-colbert-interviews-maurice-sendak.html An amazing fellow. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 25th, 2012
11:39 pm	And a Happy Birth Anniversary goes out to zorinlynx! (Comment on this)
Saturday, April 14th, 2012
11:29 pm	Are pronouns nouns that get paid? Consider the two constructions, “They objected to me singing” and “They objected to my singing”. In the first, the objection is to me (perhaps they’d rather have someone else sing), in the second the objection is to the singing. The pronouns him/his, them/their, and it/its function similarly, but no corresponding distinction can be made using her. Just another oddity of this weird language we use. (Comment on this)
Thursday, April 12th, 2012
9:14 am	I don't know why I fill these out Lifted from typographer. The usual spelling and grammar corrections have been applied. 1. Who was your first prom date? First and last (I went to only one school dance in my life, and the senior prom was it.) - Cassandra Carr. We were going steady, and one day she just dropped me with no explanation. I still don’t know why. 2. Do you still talk to your first love? My first love was Saturday morning cartoons - so, sadly, no. 3. What was your first alcoholic drink? Grasshopper - at either the Village Bell or Pretzel Bell in Ann Arbor. I was underage (17) but obviously must have looked older. 4. What was your first job? Shoveling snow around the neighborhood 5. What was your first car? 1963 Plymouth Valiant -The body was a rusted out hulk, but I’d probably still be driving it today if it hadn’t gotten towed when I had no money to recover it. Those old slant-six engines last forever. 6. Who was the first person to text you today? This presumes anyone would text me even if I had a cell phone. [Does the writer of this survey have something against the number 7?] 8. Who was your first grade teacher? Tell us about her. Mrs Hedy’s no-nonsense approach to educating her charges was scary after Mrs Cobb’s lighthearted kindergarten classes. I don’t remember ever seeing a smile on her stern face. She had an odd, squished-looked car that we kids called her “flying saucer”. 9. Where did you go on your first airplane ride? Detroit 10. Who was your first best friend, and do you still talk? Danny DeBoard, my absolute best friend for fifteen years. Then he left to live with his brother in Kentucky when his parents died. We exchanged a few letters, but when he didn’t write back one time, the relationship just ended. 11. Where was your first sleep over? Planet Earth [He apparently doesn’t like 12 either.] 13. Whose wedding were you in the first time? My own. I attended my cousins’, but I wasn’t in them. 14. What was the first thing you did this morning? Simultaneously circulated blood and breathed, along with other metabolic processes 15. What was the first concert you ever went to? Other than the ones I performed in, Joan Baez, Crisler Arena, 1970-something 16. First tattoo? [Are you getting too tired to type out a complete question?] First and only - I accidentally stabbed myself in the finger with a very sharp pencil during a dress rehearsal of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 17. First piercing? This presumes I have any, which I do not. 18. First foreign country you went to? California - which is a lot more foreign than Ontario and British Columbia 19. First movie you remember seeing? Darby O’Gill and the Little People - It was the first movie I saw in a theater (rather than a drive-in), and I remember being astounded that the sun was still up when we came out of the building’s darkened interior. 20. When was your first detention? Never had it that I recall [21 anyone?] 22. Who was your first roommate? Martin Louie - A lucky random assignment by University of Michigan housing, as we hit it off really well and stuck together when we moved from West Quad to East Quad 23. If you had one wish, what would it be? [This is not a “first” question.] To have godlike powers of creation and destruction 24. What is something you would learn if you had the chance? [Neither is this one] Everything 25. Did you marry the first person to ask for your hand in marriage? Yes, but it wasn't my first marriage. 26. What was the first sport that you were involved in? Scuba diving 27. What were the first lessons you ever took? The question as phrased makes no sense. 28. What is the first thing you do when you get home? From where? If I’ve driven there and back, I get out of the car. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, April 8th, 2012
6:47 pm	This is what passes for news nowadays Today's national broadcast news took 2 minutes of airtime to inform viewers of the critical story that James Bond, played by actor Daniel Craig, will drink a beer in the upcoming episode Skyfall, due out in November. (This is three times the amount of airtime allotted to the situation in Syria.) I sure am glad they have their priorities straight! I don't see how I could have gone on with the rest of my week without knowing this essential bit of information. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 3rd, 2012
11:06 am	Review: A Dog's Purpose—a novel for humans It is difficult to write from an animal’s point of view without becoming too cutesy or being too obviously human in one’s outlook. In A Dog’s Purpose, author W. Bruce Cameron avoids both these pitfalls, creating an artful tale with genuine emotions that never feel contrived or “non-dog”. This is a man who clearly understands our canine companions—and human nature as well. I was at first a little put off by the reincarnation aspect; I didn’t understand why he didn’t just tell the story of four different dogs rather than four different lives of the same dog. But why he chose that structure became clear in the later part of the book, and I now agree that it really could not have been told any other way. As another reviewer stated, Cameron gets everything right. This book is a notable achievement and deserves to be read by anyone with a heart. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 27th, 2012
12:53 pm	Bullies, inking, and Scott McCloud I was at some public park being threatened or badgered by a gang of bullies. I ignored them as best I could and worked on inking my comic, using a marker or brush with a sort of miniature Brillo pad instead of a nib or bristles. It did not cover well and required a scrubbing technique to get a solid black. The bullies backed off when they saw I was doing art - out of respect or something. Scott McCloud (smccloud) was there too, but I don’t remember his function in the dream, except I think he liked my comic. (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 25th, 2012
1:26 am	Review: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy Just watched the 2011 Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and I am left in sheer astonishment that anyone could make a movie about information gathering so incomprehensible. Michael Bay does bad in a nonsensical popcorn movie kind of way, but at least he provides some entertainment for the eyes of adolescent males with lots of explosions and Megan Fox. I recently read Le Carré’s book, and I was still confounded as to what was going on in many of the scenes. This was supposed to be a spy thriller, fraught with suspense, but it is impossible to be held in suspense if you have no idea what is going on. Transitions were handled so badly and so little was made clear to the viewer that it feels as though the director made a twelve-hour movie, then handed it to an editor who had never read the script and said, “Cut this down to an hour and a half, there’s a good chap.” The result is a mishmash of atmospheric but poorly paced sequences featuring people whose names you don’t even know, far less what they are doing or why they are doing it or where they are. Gary Oldman does an only passable job as George Smiley—it seemed he was mainly trying to mimic Alec Guinness’ performance in the 1979 television mini-series, but he lacks Guinness’ amiable charm. He should instead have tried to bring something genuine of his own to the role. Some reviewers hated it and some loved it. With three stars, film critic Roger Ebert gave it far more credit than I do, attributing his lack of understanding to his own failure of not meshing with the espionage way of thinking. Let me assure you, Roger, it’s not your fault! I personally love a good psychological drama, but as far as this being “a thinking man’s thriller”, I just think someone made a big mistake. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, March 23rd, 2012
9:07 pm	Ponderings on death and responsibility I find myself wanting to write a song for Meshika, or rather for pets in general and how tragic it is that we outlive them. I have serious questions about our “right” to decide when they should die. Price was ready to go; she was old and beyond weary and I suppose death was a welcome rest to her. I know for certain that Meshika, on the other hand, was not ready. She wanted to stay, particularly to stay with me. How much of my decision to end her life early was based on convenience, of my not wanting the hassle and expense of having to deal with a sick animal? People assure me it was the right decision, but Meshika would not say so if she had the opportunity to voice her opinion. You can bandy about words like “quality of life” and our “responsibility” and “stewardship” to those we have taken into our care, to justify our decisions to end their lives, but the simple fact of the matter is that life wants to live, even unto the point of begging for the pain to stop. I honestly feel and believe that my dogs have (or would have) all forgiven me for murdering them. That doesn’t make it any more right. What is the alternative—leave an animal to suffer agonizing pain, or to drug them so much that they can barely be said to be alive? If one is very fortunate, death comes gracefully and maybe even peacefully after a long and happy life, but such a gift seems to be the exception. I do not have the statistics at hand to prove it, but I strongly suspect that most pets are “put to sleep”, and most of those not comfortably at home but rather in a strange-smelling office at the hands of someone they barely know and certainly do not love. Is this how we are supposed to reward such faith and devotion that our pets offer us? I do not pretend to have the answers, just painful questions. (Comment on this)
Monday, March 19th, 2012
5:15 pm	Goodbye, dearest friend I knew last night that when we took Meshika to the vet’s today that she would not be coming home with us. Her last act—the last act of a dog who lived for nothing but to please me—was to lick my face to comfort me because she knew I was upset about something. Even though I know it was the right thing to do, it still feels like a betrayal. Last night she had been in some pain but was obviously feeling much better this morning, and she ran happily to join Carol and me to go for a ride in the car. She was eleven last December, not that old, but I hope I can say that I gave her as good as life as I could. Driving back home, the empty space in the back of the car was palpable, and when I opened the door of the house, there was no one to greet us. There will not be again for some time. She was born on the Winter Solstice of the year 2000 and made it to the Vernal Equinox 2012. “Perhaps the greatest cruelty of being human is that we outlive our pets, who can be our dearest friends.” —K. R. Kelly (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, March 18th, 2012
12:35 pm	All I have to do is dream I was youngish and blond, like the blond McKenzie brother, dressed in a heavy wool coat, a woolen hat, and a backpack. A heavy Swede and his associate were looking for me to make me the slave of some old woman. I kept moving around the city, apparently having no home, though I kept coming back to a marble bank-like building where I had a friend or acquaintance. I met kajafoglio in an outdoor café, and she let me go home with her to hide out upstairs. I heard an old woman coughing downstairs; and it seemed that Kaja was performing precisely the same service from which I was running. Possibly, it wasn’t as bad as I thought; maybe it was a job rather than kidnapping and slavery, but I wasn’t taking chances and would stay in hiding till I knew more. (Comment on this)
Friday, March 16th, 2012
9:56 am	In celebration of Saint Urho's Day A Saint Urho Yule (with Ample Fish) It is my purpose to bring to the reader’s attention the exploits of a man hailing from the far northern climes of Finland--Saint Urho. While that British-come-Irish fellow Patrick is known primarily for his aversion to Snakes, Saint Urho is renowned for having driven Grasshoppers out of the grape arbors of Finland during the last Ice Age, thereby saving the wine crop and earning him the position of patron saint of vineyards. This, if nothing else, entitles him to our respect and admiration. Finns work their magic through song, and Urho performed his miracle with the simple chant “Heinäsirkka, heinasirkka, mene täältä hiiteen”. (It loses something in translation but essentially means “Grasshopper, Grasshopper, go away”.) On Saint Urho’s Day, the traditional slogan is “Kill a Grasshopper for Saint Urho”, and you will find Finn and non-Finn alike doing their best to emulate their saint, killing Grasshoppers in every bar from Miami to Point Barrow. Though eclipsed by proximity with the honor day of that better-known British saint, Saint Urho’s Day on March 16th is an occasion celebrated by not a small number of folks. It is considered a holiday in all fifty of the states, even if the banks don’t close. (Dixie Lee Ray made Washington the third state to officially canonize him, one of the few things she did right while she was in office.) Minnesota, where he is given likely the greatest amount of festive fealty, boasts a giant statue of the saint impaling his nemesis, the lowly Grasshopper (or Locust, if you will) on the tines of a pitchfork. (Any Freudian symbolism to be derived from this is left as an exercise for the reader.) Following is an account from the saint’s own diary, a centuries-old document found miraculously well-preserved in a peat bog in downtown Ballard. Besides the diary’s intrinsic worth as an historic document and holy relic, this account has value to the anthropologic and sociologic researcher as well, for it sheds light on the true origins of some of our own holiday traditions. -------------------------------------------- I decided one Yuletide season to embark on a journey southward by sleigh from Inari to Lappeenranta in the Saimaa district, to present a gift of sweetmeats to my relatives who lived there. This is a distance of some three thousand miles, and so I determined to set off just after sunrise if--with the Winter days being only a few hours long--I were to arrive at my destination before it grew dark. Now I know there are those among you who are familiar with maps and would tell me that the distance from Inari to Saimaa is not three thousand miles but rather one-fifth that, being a span of a little less than six hundred miles. But you also know well that because of improvements in roads, the channelization of waterways, and the general advance of the science of transportation that the world has grown smaller. You often hear this said, so it is most certainly true. And I tell you in all truthfulness that I undertook this journey while the world was still quite large and the distance from Inari to Saimaa was five times greater than it is today. Now, I was in some quandary as to which team of Reindeer to put into harness. The one team was reliable and sturdy, but not so swift as this journey might require. The other team was quick and flashy, sure to make a good impression among those who saw me--a thing one must consider when traveling outside one’s native district--but the fine-looking team did not have outstanding staying power and probably would need to rest at least once in the three-thousand-mile journey. I finally decided on a single Reindeer, the pride of my herd--though I might not have chosen him had I known what dangers lay before me on the trail. Yet how could I not have chosen him? He was a tall and handsome animal, strongly muscled, clear-eyed, and supporting a splendiferous rack of antlers that were so fine he could not bear to shed them in the Spring and retained them throughout the year, adding to their size and glory as the seasons passed. This rack was so large that in the days of his youth, this Reindeer--as common Reindeer scrape the velvet off their antlers on tree branches--would use the Moon for this purpose, lending that sphere its present-day scarred and mottled appearance. This rack was so beautiful that it attracted all manner of creatures to it. In fact, the rack once supported an entire Estonian village, including all their houses, their municipal buildings, and their grazing lands and livestock. (This village was swept away in a tumultuous flood brought about by an event in my life that brought this Reindeer to tears--but that is another story.) On the morning of my departure, as I was readying the sleigh in the pre-dawn darkness by oiling the traces and waxing the runners, an Elder of the village came to me and bade me not go on my journey. He predicted that a terrible wind was coming from the Arctic, and he feared that wild Wolves would feast on my frozen carcass. I assured him that there was nothing to be concerned about, for, though I put full faith in his prediction, I was, after all, traveling almost due south, and a north wind would, if anything, only help to speed me on my journey. I put my chosen Reindeer into harness just before dawn, and as the Sun showed its first glint above the eastern horizon, we were off. There was no need for me to crack the whip. This Reindeer was well accustomed to my desire to begin a journey at first light, and he waited calm yet eager in the traces until the morning beam touched his brow. Then the sleigh was whisked into virtual flight as his hooves churned the snow beneath us into the river that today is known as the Kemijoki that flows from Saariselka through Rovaniemi to Kemi at the Gulf of Bothnia. It is a fine river, with ample fish. Though I had prepared well for my journey, being warmly bundled in my best woolens and having stocked the sleigh with my gifts and necessary provisions, I had neglected to take full account of the effects of the weather. I was scarcely a score of miles from Inari before the tempest predicted by the village elder flung itself upon me in full force. As I expected, it did augment the passage of my sleigh. Unfortunately, it also amplified the efforts of pursuit of a pack of Wolves that had caught the scent of the sweetmeats included in my provisions. More Wolves were caught up in the excitement of the chase as we passed them, so that by the time I had reached the Kemijärvi district, my sleigh was pursued by fully twelve hundred ninety-seven of the hungry beasts. Still, I was not concerned--My courser could keep well ahead of them--but I noted a peculiarity in all the Wolves that chased me. As well you know, Wolves run with their tails raised--yet these beasts all ran with their tails down. I pondered this for a moment and had just arrived at the terrible implication when it suddenly became too late for me to do anything about it. For just then, an especially powerful gust of frigid arctic wind struck my Reindeer about the rump, and, having no protection such as the long, bushy tail of these Wolves, he was filled from behind by the force of the wind, blowing him up like a balloon. He would surely have burst from excess of internal pressure were the wind not so bitterly cold that he froze on an instant from the inside out. Even worse, the pre-eminently icy nature of this gust of wind had frozen the runners of the sleigh fast to the ground so that all forward progress instantly ceased. The Wolves would be upon me in a matter of seconds. Again, I was not too concerned. However, I would be forced to fight these Wolves, most likely to the death of the last one--their number, incidentally, now in excess of two thousand forty--and such an undertaking would very likely make me late for my arrival in Saimaa. Therefore, I decided that desperate measures were called for. I quickly unwrapped the sweetmeats I had stored in the sleigh and, spreading the wrappings to their full extent, tossed them into the wind in such a way that they were whisked forward into the antlers of my now-frozen Reindeer. There the wrappings impaled each of their four corners on the sharp tines, and, together acting as a sail, they took the full force of the wind and bore us fully into the air as the runners wrenched free from the frozen ground. Or so I thought at first. But when I looked down, I saw that the runners were still frozen in place and instead a large patch of earth had been uprooted and was carried along with us. (The hole my departure left behind eventually filled with water when the Spring rains came, becoming what is today known as Lake Oulujärvi, the fourth largest of the many lakes in Finland. It is a fine lake, with ample fish.) The Wolves were, of course, left far behind. And the wind, which the village Elder had feared would prove baneful to me, provided not only this salvation but was so swift that the heat of the friction of our progress through the air thawed my Reindeer. The resultant exhalation from his nether parts enhanced the speed of our passage to such a marked degree that I arrived in Saimaa one day before I left Inari. I trotted my Reindeer into the little town of Lappeenranta, and, after taking down my makeshift sail and quickly re-wrapping the sweetmeats, I delivered my gifts to my relatives who, in anticipation of my arrival had prepared a sumptuous feast (with ample fish). The ensuing celebration was so pleasing to one and all that it was generally felt I ought to make the journey every Yuletide. -------------------------------------------- Here ends the entry in the saint’s diary. (Comment on this)
Saturday, March 10th, 2012
6:02 pm	I frakkin' hate Daylight Saving Time! (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, March 2nd, 2012
2:43 pm	The future is sad I needed a part for a small project I'm building. The local electronics store I normally deal with did not have it in stock, so I went to Radio Shack (Cascade Mall, Burlington, Washington - to identify the guilty) and asked whether they had the op amp I was looking for. “Op amp?” he asked, obviously unfamiliar with the term. “Operational amplifier”, I said. “An eight-pin IC.” “We only have a couple of amplifiers”, he said, grasping at the only word he recognized and trying to lead me over to stereo equipment. “No, it’s an integrated circuit, a semiconductor.” Blank stare. I showed him the drawer they keep the semiconductors in. “Oh, it’s a sensor!” he said brightly. Another word he knew! The drawer was labeled ICs and Sensors. “No. It’s an op amp.” He responded with something wholly nonsensical to cover the fact that he had no idea what I was talking about. I left, sadly shaking my head and despairing for the younger generation. I know that Radio Shack doesn’t give their employees any training, but is it really too much to expect someone who works in an electronics-supply store to at least know what an integrated circuit is? (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 28th, 2012
11:11 am	Comic-book Kalevala Squeee! How do I get a copy of Kristian Huitula's comic-book adaptation of the Kalevala? I assume it is available only in Finnish, but maybe that would provide a bit of an incentive to learn the language (which I'm sorry to say I have made only a token attempt at learning over the years). I already have Don Rosa's charming comic "The Quest of Kalevala", in which Uncle Scrooge, Donald Duck, and his nephews face the sorceress Louhi, among other trials, in their pursuit of the legendary sampo. The world obviously needs more comic-book Kalevalas! (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, February 27th, 2012
4:37 pm	Books read in February Mending the Past and Healing the Future with Soul Retrieval, Alberto Villoldo (2005) In contrast to the work of the Harner school of cross-cultural shamanism, the author posits a far more restrictive notion of what constitutes a spirit journey, delineating a Lower World with four chambers and an Upper World with five planes, in each of which only certain things can occur or encounters made. He may be describing one specific form of tribal shamanism, that of the Laika Inca (which he oddly spells ‘Inka’), but he never really addresses that this is just one of thousands of ways the spirits realms may appear. Every other text on shamanism I’ve seen has been much more open-ended in that regard. Something about Villoldo’s writing bugs me, aside from the glib way he affirms “do x and y will occur” that plagues this sort of book. It isn’t even his apparent need to make soul retrieval pseudo-scientific by waving quantum mechanical chestnuts like collocation around. Somehow, his writing feels like he is in my face in an overly chummy kind of way, like a salesman who hopes by his personality to distract you from the shitty condition of the used car he is trying to sell you. Insincerity? Maybe. Carol says his foundation has been criticized for its glitziness and the shady way it charges for teaching sacred techniques that traditionally money is never asked for. Unveiling Your Future: progressions made easy, Pottenger and Dobyns (1998) This is nothing more than a collection of interpretations of various angular aspects made by calculating secondary progressions. No attempt is made to provide the techniques of performing these calculations or, for that matter, even explaining what a progression is; there is not so much as a dictionary definition. The authors blithely dismiss this as unworthy of their consideration: “This volume will not cover the mathematics of progressions; that is amply covered in other texts.” Even then, no citations are given to these “other texts”. If you desire some understanding of progressions or their basis, look elsewhere, because this book will not provide it. The writing is literate but graceless and riddled with questionable punctuation, and I have my doubts that a copy editor ever even looked at it. One finds, for example, this howler on page three: “A grand cross with $ at 18 4 and ( at 19 7 and % at 20 0 and ^ at 21 1”. And this is one of the rare examples in the book where the authors attempt some clarification. (Granted, it doesn’t take a lot of brainpower to figure out that 4, 7, 0, and 1 were supposed to be the symbols for Cancer, Libra, Capricorn, and Aries, but that this error persists in a published work is inexcusable.) Despite one of the prominently displayed reviews stating “this book has something for everyone, from the student to the professional”, it is clearly not for the beginner who seeks an understanding of progressions. It may be a worthwhile reference, but any book subtitled “progressions made easy” should at least tell you what a progression is. The Astrology of Self-discovery, Tracy Marks (1985) One of the better books on “finding your life purpose”, presented in a readable style that clearly delineates the author’s message. I found the abundance of quotations enjoyable, elucidating, and apt, adding a further dimension to the intended lessons. The book’s design is so-so, with a legible but inelegant typeface; and an included calendar of new and full Moon occurrences is of course now hopelessly out of date, but it was popular in this era to include such tables, even though they quickly became obsolete. Under Heaven, Guy Kay (2010) This began and built into so engaging a story that I felt betrayed by the manner in which it fell apart. There are some minor quibbles scattered here and there that can be overlooked, but the intrusion of the omniscient narrative voice, frequent throughout, overwhelmed the final fifth or so of the book, turning it from a novel into a rambling historical treatise. It is not a viewpoint that allows the reader to engage with the characters and instead pulls one right out of the story. Use of flashback does the same thing, and the author jumped around in time far too much, at one point even incorporating a flashforward within a flashback. The story is filled with men who are completely helpless in the presence of beautiful women, far beyond merely being influenced by them or making bad decisions because of them. I found this the weakest part of the story, the hardest to accept—and insulting to both men and women. I can conceive of no reason Li-Mei’s scenes were written in present tense (except the last). There is a reason writing instructors tell their students to avoid it. An Li is supposed to be a brilliant strategist, and I found it impossible to accept that he was so delusional as to believe he would have the support of the Five Families. The epilogue felt tacked on, an afterthought where a number of loose threads were tied together in a dissatisfying manner. The author’s “clever” nudge-and-wink revelations here were just annoying. I had hoped the extravagance of the gift of the Sardian horses would be treated here, but it was never adequately explained. And the horses themselves are never described—we are simply told (repeatedly) that they are wonderful, excellent, superior. Kay has never been big on description, but he could have made an effort here. In the author’s notes, Kay explains why he writes fantasy—but the question I felt needed answering was why use a real-life historical setting, in this case, China’s Tang dynasty, for what is clearly a fantasy novel. Doing so made all the historical “inaccuracies” pop up and wave little red flags. If you’re going to write fantasy, write fantasy; if you’re going to write historical fiction, write historical fiction. Don’t try to do both at once. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, John Le Carré (1974) I have not yet seen the 2011 film, but I did thoroughly enjoy the 1979 PBS version. I cannot say the same for this book on which it was based. If a movie were made of this book as it is written, it would consist entirely of scenes of people reading or talking while eating, sitting in a car, or walking in the rain. Oh yes, people perspire a lot. High drama, that. The only action in the entire book, if you want to call it that, is when Peter Guillam sneaks a file folder out of the archives. We learn of critical events by hearing characters tell other characters about them; this removes the reader from the story and makes it impossible to engage with anyone, even the lead George Smiley, for whom one has to bear some sympathy if the novel is to succeed at all. The scenes of Jim at the school, a significant chunk of the text, add nothing to the story—only initial confusion as to why they are shown. We know from the very beginning that there is a Russian mole in the British secret service, but the steps taken to ferret him out are obfuscated and tedious. This received high praise when it came out in the mid 1970s. Perhaps readers of spy novels, not a genre I normally follow, have lower expectations. (Comment on this)
Monday, February 20th, 2012
3:30 pm	And for this I am called elitist There's a lot of talk lately about self-publishing versus the traditional publishing model. Self-publishing is on the rise because the Internet--and e-books--make it so easy. But self-publishing bypasses the gatekeepers whose job it is to see that published works measure up to a certain standard of quality. Or at least that used to be their job. I would like to believe in the relevancy of the traditional publication process, but my own reading experience suggests that copy editors are extinct and that developmental editors do not care one whit for quality. The inane plots, flat characters with unbelievable motivation, blizzards of typos, and the endless stream of abuse heaped upon English grammar in professionally published fiction nowadays makes me wonder just what publishing houses think their jobs are. It is easy to imagine that they have all been outsourced to English-as-a-second-language accountants. (Not that I'm remotely suggesting that self-publishing produces a superior product; the evidence clearly supports the opposite conclusion.) What bothers me most, though, is not the sorry quality of what is being printed these days but rather the fact that most readers don't notice or care. If people buy tripe, that is what will be produced and sold. (3 Comments |Comment on this)